CHAPTER 2. ZERO KILOMETER (Part 3)

  The hermetic airlock door hissed shut behind Dmitry, cutting off the diesel's roar. A dense, ringing silence hung in the living module, broken only by the hum of the climate control. The temperature was rising rapidly. +16... +18... Warmth. After the icy hell outside, this should have brought relief.

  But Dmitry didn't relax. He stood at the threshold, looking down at his feet, his face twisted in a grimace of disgust. The floor. His sacred, hand-laid teak parquet, which cost more than the kidney of an average European. The golden, perfectly smooth wood was now defiled. A greasy, black trail of footprints stretched from the entrance. Swamp sludge mixed with gasoline and rot dripped from his boots, soaking into the joints. In the sterile air of the Ark, smelling of leather and ozone, it now stank of rotten eggs and slime.

  “Bastard,” Dmitry spat.

  He began tearing off his gear with fury. The wet, stinking waders flew into the dirty boot tray. The boots followed. Dmitry stripped everything off, down to the last sock, standing naked in the middle of the room. His body still trembled slightly from hypothermia, but anger warmed him better than a stove. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and disinfectant spray. Dropped to his knees and began scrubbing the floor furiously.

  “In my house... Dirt... I won't allow it.”

  He scrubbed until the paper stopped turning black and the parquet squeaked with cleanliness. Only then, having destroyed the traces of the alien world's invasion, did he allow himself to enter the shower. Hot water hit his shoulders, washing away cold and tension. Dmitry stood under the jets for twenty minutes until his skin turned red, trying to wash off the very feeling of that sticky swamp.

  Stepping out of the shower in a terry robe, he finally felt human. He poured a glass of water, drank it in one gulp, and approached the main communications terminal. Now that there was power, he had to call for help.

  Dmitry activated the Comms console.

  “Scan all frequencies,” he commanded, running his fingers over the sensors. On the Ark's roof, antenna arrays came alive.

  Satellite phone (Iridium/Inmarsat): Dmitry waited for the familiar "Handshake." The screen blinked red: “No Signal. Satellites not found.”

  “Okay,” Dmitry frowned. “Dense cloud cover? Geomagnetic storm?”

  He switched to Starlink. The dish on the roof began to rotate, searching for Elon Musk's "train" of satellites. “Searching... Searching... Satellites not found.”

  “Bullshit,” he muttered. “There are thousands of them. You can't miss every single one.”

  He turned on the HF radio. Shortwaves reflect off the ionosphere; they hit for thousands of kilometers. If there are people, dispatchers, military anywhere—he’ll hear them. Dmitry slowly turned the tuning knob, watching the "waterfall" of frequencies on the screen. Usually, the ether is full of life: Morse code, pilot chatter, digital modem noise, just interference from power lines. Here was silence. Absolute, white, sterile silence. The static noise of the Universe. Not a single carrier frequency. Not a single voice. Not a single beep-beep-beep. The planet was silent.

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  “Where the hell am I?” Dmitry leaned back in his chair, feeling a cold void growing inside. “Antarctica? In a bunker? Even Antarctica has ether.” This silence scared him more than the swamp outside. It meant help wasn't coming. 911 wouldn't arrive. Uncle Igor wouldn't send a helicopter.

  Dmitry abruptly minimized the comms window. Panic is for the weak. He needed to count resources. He opened the "Power System" tab. Numbers glowed green.

  Fuel (Diesel): 96%. 768 liters. Consumption (Current): 1.2 L/h.

  Dmitry calculated quickly. 768 liters. If he stood still, kept warm, burned lights, and ran water filters—that was about 640 hours. 26 days. A month of life. And then? Then darkness, cold, and death.

  His gaze slid to the bottom corner of the screen. There was an icon he had made the programmers highlight in red.

  BTL Reactor. Status: Standby.

  Dmitry grinned. A wicked, triumphant smile touched his lips. He remembered the faces of the engineers in Austria. That gray-haired Hans shaking the estimate at him. “Herr Antonov, this is madness! The unit weighs two tons! It eats up payload! Why do you need to convert firewood into diesel? You are driving in the 21st century, gas stations are everywhere!”

  Dmitry nearly fired him then. He yelled at them in the conference room, banging his fist on the table. “I don't pay you to teach me how to live! I am paranoid, Hans! I want to know that if nuclear winter starts tomorrow, or a zombie apocalypse, or an alien invasion, I can refuel this car with pinecones and keep driving! Install that damn reactor, or I'll find someone who will!”

  They installed it. Looked at him like an eccentric tech-magnate from Kyiv, who played too much Fallout, but they installed it. And here he was. In a world with no satellites. In a swamp with no gas stations. But all around—thousands of tons of biomass. Dead trees. Peat. He was right. His paranoia saved his life before that life was even threatened.

  “Well, Hans?” Dmitry said quietly, looking at the reactor icon. “Who's the idiot now? I'll be driving on firewood while you, back in your Europe, will be...”

  He cut himself off. Is there a Europe? If the ether is silent... He pushed that thought away. The main thing—he had autonomy. He depended on no one. He had a month of pure diesel and eternity on forage.

  Dmitry stood up. His stomach reminded him of itself with a loud growl. Stress required calories.

  “War is war, but lunch is on schedule.”

  He went to the kitchen block. No haute cuisine. He wanted something simple, hot, and unhealthy. He took a bag of frozen varenyky from the freezer. A Ukrainian comfort classic in an African (or whatever it is now) swamp. While the water boiled on the induction stove, Dmitry chose a wine. Chateau Margaux. 2015.

  “With dumplings?” he asked himself. “Why not. Today I celebrate a second birth.”

  Ten minutes later, he sat at the table. Dumplings with sour cream steamed in the plate. Wine worth a thousand euros played ruby in the glass. Outside the window was absolute, hostile blackness of an alien world. Inside was light, warmth, and the smell of home.

  Dmitry turned on the wall panel—a huge 4K TV. The media library was extensive. He had downloaded terabytes of movies, series, and games. What to watch? Action? No, enough adrenaline. Horror? God forbid. Comedy? Wrong mood.

  He scrolled through the list and stopped on an old Sold cult Ukrainian classic. Propala Hramota! (The Lost Letter). Symbolic... ‘To the tavern, men!’ he muttered, echoing the screen. He watched Kozak Vasyl and felt a strange kinship.

  Wine and warmth did their job. His eyelids grew heavy. The movie hadn't ended, but Dmitry was already nodding off. He turned off the panel. The lights went out, leaving only the soft floor illumination. Dmitry made it to the bed and collapsed, burying his face in the pillow. His body ached, but his mind shut down instantly. That night he dreamed of nothing. No bears, no accidents. His paranoia, convinced that tanks were full and doors locked, gave the green light for deep, black, dreamless sleep.

  ?? SYSTEM ALERT: SUPPLY DROP

  Chapter 2 is ALREADY FINISHED and fully uploaded!

  10,000+ words (8 episodes) ahead of the public release right now!

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